Five years ago, on a rainy night, he knelt on the bare concrete floor of our tiny apartment, eyes bloodshot, his voice stripped down to something close to begging.
"Elaine, please don't leave me. Please don't get rid of the baby. I'm begging you."
"Just give me a little more time. I'll make money. I'll give you and the baby a good life. Just a little more time..."
We had come from the same mountain village. We met when we were six. We married at twenty-two. It was the first time I had ever seen him look so small.
But I held back my tears and said the most hurtful words I could find.
"Sean, I've had enough. I don't have time to keep walking this road with you."
"I don't want to spend my life with a broke nobody, and I sure as hell don't want to bring more broke nobodies into the world. Love doesn't pay the bills. Without money, it's all worthless."
His eyes were red. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of cash, pressing it into my hands.
It was his paycheck. A wad of cash, every last dollar.
He hadn't even bought himself a pack of cigarettes. He'd been saving it all, saying he wanted to buy me that dress I'd been eyeing for months.